Playing Dead
by Evildevilangel
Summary: NOW COMPLETE. John is sick of playing dead after Alcatraz. Two-parter, John/OC, John/Bobby-centric in the second half. Rated for violence, language, vaguely sexy bits...
1. Chapter 1

Not mine. First part of a two-parter, the second of which will be John/Bobby-centric. Let me know what you think of this half, though. I've never really played with OC's before.

* * *

John knew a thing or two about playing dead. He had learned them when he was fourteen, in a rough district of New Orleans.

_Bang. John didn't even flinch, he'd heard that sound coming from behind him so many times. Cop guns, gang guns, angry father guns, they all sounded alike from behind. He didn't understand why he was down, sprawled in the closest side street he could find, couldn't remember why he'd split from the path, even though he had decided to do it a few seconds ago. Fire. He concentrated. He knew fire, fire didn't hurt him, if he could just focus hard enough. But the fire didn't stop, he couldn't make it stop. It wasn't until he saw the blood creeping onto the pavement that he knew he'd been shot. _

_John was a fighter. He tried to swear, tried to make words, tried to push himself up off the ground. But his brain, his limbs, they were too busy trying to contain the uncontainable fire. In the background, in some distant life, he heard the shouts of his pursuers as they saw him but kept running. Left him for dead. _

_What felt like hours later, but was probably only a few minutes, he heard a shout. "Peter!" a familiar voice cried in pain. Peter. That was his name this time. The voice screamed again, this time no words to be found. Jeremy. John struggled to his feet, grasping the brick wall on his left for support. He staggered out of the alley, down the street, into the night, toward that voice. He reached the alley where they had him after the fourth shot, the third scream. He watched, unable to voice his own scream, as Jeremy shook as he tried to rise again, dark clothes darker as red stains spread. One in the leg, that must've brought him down. Two in the stomach. One in shoulder. They were playing now. Kicking him as he fought to focus, fought to stand. John stumbled forward, still voiceless, as Jeremy stopped moving. John closed his eyes, holding the sight behind his eyes as he felt himself drawn to the streetlights, the trash cans, the family furnaces. Every hint of light in the dark city. "Help me," he whispered to them as he raised his hand and sent out the most urgent distress signal he knew – a column of pure flame._

_John had held it in place, keeping his hand outstretched, eyes closed, long after the gangbangers had fled. He held it, determined to do the only thing he could. _

"_Peter!" a voice called to him, deeper this time, somehow softer even though it was as loud. Strong, thin arms wrapped around him, careful to avoid the bloody patch on his back. "Peter, nod if you can hear me."_

_John nodded, eyes still closed, power pouring through him. He felt the sigh of relief at his ear. _

"_You have to stop holding it, the others will be here soon."_

"_They can help," his whispered hoarsely, starting to lean against those arms._

"_No. Peter, he's gone. Stop the signal." An arm touched his, fingers on his fingers._

"_No. They can help. They know how to do things," he panted as the column widened._

_The voice sighed again in his ear and entwined his fingers with John's. "You can help him. Channel the force into him."_

_John nodded again, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. "I understand, let go." The arms released him as he moved the column over the body. He opened his eyes, watched as everything that was Jeremy went up to heaven. He watched as even the ashes burned into themselves and flew. _

_The arms came around him again. "Done. The others are around the corner. Close it and close your eyes."_

_John nodded and allowed the fire to return to the furnaces, the trashcan, the streetlights. He closed his eyes and let his personal darkness consume him. He heard dimly as footsteps approached again. Heard the voice explain it all away – Peter had been shot, was unconscious now, had managed to light Jeremy's body in a gasoline puddle for help first, that was why it was so big. The tone was authoritative. John heard no more questions. No one knew, not even the voice, that he had only survived by playing dead, by being a coward._

_

* * *

  
_

_Later, John had awoken to more fire in his back._

"_Don't move," ordered the strong voice, before he even had thought to move._

"_Scotty?" John asked softly, refusing to open his eyes. He felt something move in him, then the unique clink of a bullet landing in a tin can. "He's really gone?"_

"_Yeah." He could hear the pain in the older man's voice. "That's a good sign. You remember me?"_

"_Naw, I call everyone 'Scotty' when I don't remember jack-shit," he tried to joke but nearly screamed when he tried to arch and look at his friend. _

"_Now, here I thought I was special," he said, teasing gently. John heard the flick of a lighter. "You want me to do this or do it yourself?"_

_John closed his eyes and forced himself upright, ignoring the spinning in his head. "I got this." He held out his hand for the Bic._

_He opened his eyes and saw a soft smile form under Scotty's salt-and-pepper beard. "You gonna want a mirror or two?" John shook his head. The older man nodded, handed him the small plastic and metal contraption. "I'll be back later to make sure you didn't fuck it up too badly."_

_John nodded again and waiting him to leave the tent. He flipped the wheel and ran his fingers through the flame. Six months he'd been in this hobo camp in New Orleans. Six months. He wrapped his arm around his body and felt the flame caress the skin of his back. Six month, five of them spent with Scotty as a medic's aide. He closed his eyes and guided the flame to the hole in his back, holding back a light scream as the flame seared away all the germs, all the hurt. He felt a fragment Scotty had missed melt and run down his back as the fire forced it out. It burned, like fire had never done to him before, but he deserved the pain, maybe even the warmth. He let it run further, deeper, over the rest of his skin. Let it purge him of the dirt, the grime, the blood, the fear, the hurt, the grief. He was so busy trying to cleanse himself he almost didn't hear the gasp at the door. John let him eyes fly open, saw the shocked look in his mentor's eyes before he looked down and saw the flames lapping at his skin, desperate to touch the object in the tent. _

"_Take it off, Peter," Scotty said. His voice was low, dangerous._

_John tried. He tried to push the fire back into the lighter, into himself, anywhere Scotty couldn't see. He felt his pulse rise as the flames refused to comply. "I can't…" He almost thought he heard a whispered "please" in Scotty's tone before he felt the cold drench him. He felt the water drip over him, flames gone. "How did you-"_

"_Thought leavin' a punk like you with a light might be a bad idea," said Scotty, forcing a grin. _

"_I-" John stood, to leave or plead, he wasn't sure. His skin was just a light pink, like he was flushed._

"_Sit," said the medic, a mixture of soft and hard in his tone. John complied. "Five months you've been workin' with me, right?" John almost correct "five and a half" before just nodding. "You like working with the flame, cleaning 'em out." John nodded, even though this was not a question. He had come to the camp because he hadn't eaten in three days. Jeremy had argued to let him stay. They had met before. John had stuck close to him, although he earned his keep in less… savory ways than he would have liked. Scotty had taken him in, protected him, given him a real place, after one morning he had played with the lighter and scalpel instead of leaving the moment he woke up. "I've seen you with the light, you like to touch it, guide it, it likes you. That's why it's your signal." John nodded dumbly again. "It's time for you to go." John jumped up, regretting it, but standing his ground._

"_No." This was his… place. Not a home, but at least a place._

"_The rumors will spread. Jeremy isn't here. I can only do so much with the young ones." John nodded, it was true. But he could fight, he could try. Scotty held up a hand as soon as he opened his mouth. "It will do more for both of us if you leave." John furrowed his brows. "I am not in a position to explain. Go north, to Canada if you can. I knew a man, once, who called himself Logan. He knew a thing or two about healing." _

"_But I'm not burned up!" He waved his still pink hands._

_Scotty nodded. "Exactly. Now do as I say, Peter."_

"_It's-" John broke off, mid-sentence. Rules of engagement. "Okay." Scotty had saved him once. The man deserved his trust. _

_Scotty nodded, and gestured outside. The duffel bag was already packed – all his clothes, a few day's food, fifty dollars in singles and fives. His vision blurred. "Thank-"_

"_Go, firebug," said the older man. "The others will want to see me out there so I can't explain your absence later."_

Two days later, Cyclops and Storm had picked him up in a bus station in Maryland by simply calling him "firebug." John had never asked how they knew.

Three years later, Gambit had told him that there was still an area in New Orleans, called The Column, where no gang dared venture because the indestructible Jeremiah roamed there, leaving pillars of flame in his wake. John had looked amused, asked if they had tried to find this mutant, but asked no more questions. That was Peter's life, Peter was dead. John knew how to play dead.

* * *

A year after Alcatraz, John was fucking sick of playing dead.


	2. Chapter 2

The second part, as promised. For the purpose of this story, Mystique was never cured and fought at Alcatraz.

* * *

_John knew where he was before he opened his eyes. He could feel the fear, running through his veins like gasoline, pushing the fire hotter, farther, faster. Felt the fireballs rush out of him, had to open his eyes just to see him. Standing there in his stupid leather, with the stupid look of hurt on his face, as if John didn't feel it too. As if John wasn't trying to control the fire, to make sure it wouldn't hurt him. Maybe if he iced up all the way, hid Bobby away, he could have fried the bastard. He felt his heart pound as he smirked, praying Bobby would think of something, find a way to win or hide, forced the snide words from his mouth, putting on a show for the rest of the Brotherhood. But Bobby didn't ice up, didn't run. John watched in slow motion as he fell to one knee. This wasn't going to work. He had to do something. He couldn't kill Bobby. He dragged in a ragged breath, pushing down the pain, hurt, triumph, fear raging through him. And flipped his wrists, exposing the lighters that fueled his flames, praying the Bobby would understand. Then the blissful cold raced through him, promising Bobby would live another day._

John woke up in a cold sweat, and wiped his eyes. He grabbed the lighter that sat on his nightstand and flicked, letting the fire burn the nightmare away. The same one, getting more and more frequent. He ran the fire along his arms, his face, drying away the evidence of his fear. He felt the body next to him shift away from the cleansing heat. John shook his head, trying not see the rough blue skin beside him.

_It had begun when he first joined the Brotherhood. Every night, a different girl opened his door. At first he thought they were other group members, then that they were a test brought in by Magneto. Then, the bodies of X-Men came to offer themselves – Rogue, Kitty, Storm, Jean. That was when he figured it out. Every night, he said no, and slammed the door. Eventually, it was men. Ones he knew, ones he had never met. It was disgusting. She never even tried in her own skin. Every day, he refused._

_Until the day at the clinic. He saw Bobby, saw the fear in his eyes when he recognized John, the glance towards the door. Not fear for himself, not fear of what John had become. Fear for her. Memories crashed down on the fire mutant – every look Bobby had given Rogue, every touch, that kiss in his parent's house. The looks of disgust he directed at his best friend in public. The smirk, the clever words, they came easily. Preventing the hurt from showing in his eyes, restraining himself from grabbing Bobby and forcing him to see, that had been a test. He had been so caught up in his private struggles, he had almost missed the look of pain Bobby shot the skunk-haired girl at the head of the line. Almost hadn't seen how the brown haired boy tensed, wanting to run to her. John wanted to burn the bitch right then. He let the flame fly to his hand, readied himself to throw. But then his look would come back, the pain in his blue eyes, the way his mouth opened slightly, and it would be his fault. _

_John loosed his flames on the clinic, giving the Iceman and his girl one more chance to find a way to be the happy superfreak couple, and said nothing when Magneto raged about his reckless actions on an information gathering mission. _

_That night, John had been at his desk, clutching the chair, when the door opened. "If Bobby Drake is standing there when I turn around, and I wake up alone tomorrow, I won't ask any questions," he said, seemingly to the wall. He barely jumped when a cold, white hand came from behind and rested on his hip. He turned to find the not-Bobby, with his soft brown hair and clear blue eyes looking up at him with surprise and understanding. John felt something in him scream and break, and something else fall into place, as he fisted his hand in the soft-brown hair that felt just like the real Bobby and let himself fall into a world of tongues and teeth and chilled white skin._

_That was their unspoken agreement now. John got to spend his nights at entangled with the not-Bobby, and fall asleep in his arms. In exchange, he stayed with an organization that had already taught him all it deemed necessary, which offered him no more safety than he could provide himself, helping a woman help the man she loved in secret._

John shuddered and got out of bed to shower, knowing the movement would wake her and send her away. He turned on the hot water all the way, and grabbed a bar of hotel soap. A whole year since she had rescued his unconscious body from Alcatraz, after Magneto had been shot. A whole year they had been touring the country, rebuilding their group while its master recovered, never staying in one place, never showing off their powers. It made John's blood boil, but he did nothing but step into the steaming water. Today was going to be hard enough without a fight.

* * *

Robert Drake, Iceman, was already exhausted. Classes had been cancelled for the private holiday, so he had spent the day in the danger room, and then quickly showered and attended the memorial service for Jean. He wondered if they would have it every year, or if it was just to mark that they had all somehow survived a whole year. He wondered if he was so tired he was hearing things. Because he was very sure he hadn't left music on in his room.

By the time Bobby reached his room, he had determined two things: The music was most definitely coming from his room, and he had most definitely not left it playing. He stopped outside the door and took a deep breath. He had talked with Kitty and Jubilee about touching his music, and especially the CD player in the corner. John's CD player. It still had the music they had been listening to, the day John had left. His favorite CD. Bobby had wondered from time to time if he missed it, if there was a way to get it to him. But those were in the category of Forbidden Thoughts, along with all his memories of him and the fire mutant, and facts like some nights, when he couldn't sleep, he turned on that CD player, real low, and let it fill his thoughts. Or that some mornings, when he woke after dreaming about his best friend, he would sneak over to the closet where all John's clothes still lay, and curl up with one, smelling it and crying. Or that he had killed his best friend.

Bobby let his hand rest on the doorknob, thinking of what he would say to whoever had transgressed. Finally, he turned the knob, "I know I've asked-"

"What?" asked John with a smile, leaning up against the wall. He watched as Bobby's jaw dropped and he kicked the door shut.

"You can't be here."

John frowned. This was not how this conversation was supposed to go, although he supposed it was better than being frozen on the spot. Not that he didn't have a flame going behind his back. "It's my room too."

Bobby took a step forward, and rested an arm on his desk for support. "No, it's not. You left."

"My things are still here."

"You left them here."

John shook his head. It was that kind of imbecilic logic that had convinced him to leave in the first place. A place for everything and everything in its place. "You were staying here."

Bobby's mind raced, trying to find what on earth that had to do with anything. It didn't help when John strolled across the room, all cool nonchalance, until he was so close Bobby could feel his breath on his lips. "Are you staying?" he whispered before he could stop himself. That was one of the Forbidden Thoughts.

"You know I can't." John breathed in the scent, cherished the chill that came whenever Bobby was upset or nervous or angry. It was something the not-Bobby simply couldn't get right.

"But-" Bobby knew it was true. John was a felon, a criminal, and he hated the school anyway. They had fought, they were enemies-

John reached out and grasped the back of his friend's neck before he even realized he had done it. It was automatic now, a reflex. He saw how Bobby's thoughts simply stopped, remembered the first time he had done that. "No." He let himself move a little closer, let him lips wander over the ice mutant's jaw. "Just had to come back," he kissed up to his face, letting his teeth graze that spot behind Bobby's ear, "one last time." He smiled as the room cooled again, and the tension drained out of the boy in front of him.

"Please," Bobby felt himself wrap one arm around John's waist as the other ran through the boy's hair. It was as though muscle memory was taking over, all the Forbidden Thoughts breaking out and locking all conscious thoughts away.

John ran his tongue over the ice mutant's cold lips, not letting him finish his sentence. He let his hands wander, tracing designs no one would ever see over his lover's skin, let Bobby pull him towards the bed. He pushed the brown-haired boy onto the soft comforter. If heaven's half this wonderful, John thought, I wish I had died a year ago. But the thought jolted him. Heaven was too good for him. That wasn't why he was here. He kissed his way back up to Bobby's ear and whispered, slowly, "Do you have an idea how easy it would be for me to kill you right now?" He felt the boy below him tense, knew his eyes would be clouded with confusion.

"Do you think I care?" Bobby's voice quivered, but the resolve underneath was strong. John bit back tears. That was the response he had been afraid of.

"_I care_," he spat as he pushed himself off up the bed. He braced himself as he looked into the hurt in Bobby's eyes, but couldn't stop feeling like someone was pulling his stomach out of his body.

"What's wrong with you?" Bobby stood up and moved toward John, who took a step back.

John sighed and pulled the gun from his pocket and threw it to Bobby, who caught it immediately. "That's a cure gun, fully loaded. You ever see me again, and I mean it, _ever_, you shoot first and think later."

The blue eyed mutant stared at the weapon in his hands before placing it on the bed behind him. "But what if-"

John's eyes narrowed dangerously. "No ifs. You see, you think it might be me, you find someone in here again, you shoot 'em. Worst comes to worst, I can do without my powers for a while."

"I can't-" Bobby's hands were beginning to ice over and he closed them into fists.

"Damnit Bobby!" John barely registered the ball of flame in his hand, much less the scream. "They know you're my weak spot! They know everything!"

"How?" He sank onto the bed, unable to process what was going on.

_Because I'm sleeping with a whore in your skin_. "It doesn't matter. All you need to know is you're not safe from me anymore."

"I was never in any danger from you!" Bobby stood there, face just inches from him, eyes daring him to say it wasn't true.

"And you'll take the gun, and promise me to do as I've asked, no matter what you think in that numbed brain of yours."

The ice mutant raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"Because," said John, "if you don't, I'll go down this hallway until I find the one that has cute little Kitty asleep in it, and I'll fry her as you listen to her scream." He swallowed the vomit as the thought passed through his mind, refusing to show his weakness.

Bobby's eyes hardened as he picked up the gun and placed it in a drawer in his desk. "I'll have a special place made for it in my suit, okay?"

John 's eyes burned, knowing he had lost his only friend, as he nodded and turned to leave, but he felt a cold hand on his arm. "Can't you at least stay the night?"

The fire mutant thought his heart might break as he shook his head. "No. They already know where I've gone." The hold on his arm tightened.

"Where will you go?"

"Back to them," he said with a shrug. "I've got a decent enough setup there for now. And when that falls apart, I've got some debts to pay in New Orleans."

"But-"

"No buts," he said in the harshest voice he could muster. "I'm dead again. You see me again, you know to shoot. Love you too much to risk you like that." He pulled out of the hold and was out the door before Bobby could stutter or object or say it back.

John had stalked most of the way to the empty room he had used to get into the school when he felt a viselike grip on his arm throw him against a wall.

"What were you thinking?" the voice hissed from behind him.

"That he's off-limits," grunted John as he threw his body weight against the woman containing him and rolled across the room. "Just like Erik."

"_Magneto_ is on _our side_," she hissed as they circled one another in the empty room. "And I didn't just _give away_ one of our most prized possessions to _the enemy_, so I think I get to say what's off limits and what's not." She lunged at the boy and was surprised when she was thrown against the back wall by a raging heat.

"_Erik_ isn't on any side right now. Why were you here, anyway? Just enjoy listening to my _conversations_? Or going back to the one that gave you those scars?" He threw another ball of flame, watching as the burns began to coat her entire body.

"He _broke your heart_," she choked out. John sent one more scorch of flames and then withdrew the fire.

"I can handle my own affairs. If you hadn't gone for him, we would still have the gun."

Mystique's eyes widened. "How did you-"

"I have friends in some of the same people as you do. Friends that I paid for any information regarding one X-man a very long time ago." He crossed his arms and waited.

"Fine. See how much I care. He'll be a thorn in your side until you decide to pluck him out yourself." The shape shifter lifted herself off the wall and opened the window. "I expect to see you back at the base tonight."

"Don't wait up."

"We'll see," she grinned as she leapt from the window to the ground.

John sighed and took the fire escape across the hall. At least this time, the one he loved was protected. Now John could die in peace, and a new person could emerge in the boy's body.

* * *

Bobby watched from his window as two figures ghosted across the grounds. His grip on John's parting gift tightened, realizing the other boy had been right. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should never have been afraid. I should have made you stay with me. I did love you too." Just as he was about to turn, he saw a column of flame erupt just outside the walls around the school grounds. "Goodbye, St. John."


End file.
